Elias Vardek had endured it all—broken ribs, knives digging through flesh, the electric sting of wires pressed against skin. But this time, it was different. His body had stopped trembling from the shocks; his wrists had grown numb against the restraints of the cold steel chair. Blood trailed lazily from his brow, tracing paths down his face before dripping onto the grimy floor beneath him.
The three men in the room—his captors—stood around him, laughing in hushed tones. One lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into Elias’ face. Another adjusted the roll of surgical tools on the nearby table.
Then came the thud.
A sharp, muffled sound from above. The men stopped talking. Eyes darted toward the ceiling. Another thud. This time, the old wooden beams groaned in protest.
Elias, despite everything, managed the ghost of a smirk.
The third noise wasn’t just a sound—it was an impact. A shape crashed through the attic’s weakened boards, descending into the room like a phantom. A black-clad silhouette—tall, lean, lethal. Boots hit the ground without a sound. A mane of dark hair with blood-red streaks framed a face of sculpted precision—porcelain skin, piercing eyes, dark lips that curled in an expression that was both knowing and merciless. The men barely had time to react before she struck.
Her right hand shot out, sending a throwing knife into the throat of the nearest guard. He choked, gurgled, collapsed.
The second man lunged, but she was already moving. A twist of her body, a snap of her wrist—the sleek black pistol from her thigh holster spoke, the silenced shot embedding a bullet cleanly between his eyes.
The last man panicked, scrambling for his rifle, but she was faster. She glided across the room, dodging his frantic spray of bullets. A spin, a pivot, and then—crack. Her boot connected with his jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he could rise, she crouched, knife flashing, and with one swift motion, ended his life. Elias sat motionless in his chair, blinking away the blood.